


Temptation of Memory

by snarkymonkey



Series: Woodland Travels 'Verse [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP, it's just sex, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymonkey/pseuds/snarkymonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been nearly three years since Bard and Thranduil had met in the forest of Mirkwood.  Bard figured he was alone with his longing.  Shame it took so long to realize the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation of Memory

     Half a year passed before Bard stood before Thranduil again.  Even when he had _tried_ to think of a reason to venture into Mirkwood proper, he had held back, certain it wouldn’t be well-received.  Though, to be fair, he had been more concerned it would be reciprocated.  Considering his position as bargemaster, it wouldn’t have been odd for him to try and communicate with Thranduil but even so, Bard kept quiet, unsure of where he stood with the aloof king.

     For those six months, he would lie awake now and again, remembering Thranduil’s almost gleeful smirk at their brief reunion.  The dark certainty of his gaze.  He had replayed their romp in brilliant clarity, every touch and move.  Every word.  And _craved it._   Much to his frustration.  He had considered finding another man to invite into his bed but had never followed through.  Certainly not in Lake-town.  And when he dared to venture beyond their borders, none enticed him the way Thranduil had.

     And every morning following such falls into memory, he reminded himself that not only was he human to Thranduil’s elven nature, he was a bargeman.  Vilified by his own people.  Important to none but three children.  Thranduil, on the other hand, was _king._   One could not be more distant.  That he had momentarily lowered himself to pass time with Bard still flummoxed him.  Perhaps it had been a habit of Thranduil’s?  A moment of physical pleasure between two strangers.  Bard had the barest of knowledge about elven behavior.  Thranduil’s motivations were his own and he had _not_ bothered to share his thinking with Bard on the few times they exchanged words.

     All this passed through his mind as he perched on a crate, watching the stewards go over the new wine barrels.  On his last trip, he had discovered rot had set in and thus had spent much of his morning and now afternoon _waiting_ for the elves to run through their incomprehensible inspections.  By the time the wine stewards were satisfied, Bard focused on the darkening horizon with some unease.  Not the latest he had brought the barge in but neither was it the best time for it.

     With one foot on his boat, he halted when an elf cleared his throat.  Hand on the tiller, he turned, wondering what _other_ nonsense they had planned.

     Similar to those he had dealt with all day, yet his dress a bit more refined and elegant.  Not meant for traipsing around the shore like the others.  Smooth delicate shoes.  Robes of soft green and gold.  Definitely not thick enough to combat the hint of winter in the air.  The elf bowed.  “His Worship wishes to extend a night’s hospitality to you.”

     _Eh_?  Bard looked up the path toward the distant gates of Mirkwood.  “That isn’t –“

     “He _insists,_ ” the elf interrupted.  He looked toward the darkening river.  “While he is certain you are an expert bargeman, there is a storm approaching and will likely reach the lake before you.”  He smiled.  “Best to brave it under the light of day, yes?”

     “Indeed,” Bard muttered, giving in.  Granted, he was tired from hauling the barrels up the bank all day.  But the idea that Thranduil even cared to _demand_ he rest a night unsettled him.  Was this meant to be a ‘thank you’ for their dalliance?  Some half-hearted acknowledgment of their tryst?  The idea twisted his stomach with unease.  While he had not planned on it that day, the pleasure he had taken from it would never be forgotten.  He hoped Thranduil wouldn’t tarnish it by offering some token like one would to a harlot. 

     _I suppose, I shouldn’t blame him._   He stepped off the boat, crouching down to recheck his ropes.  _He might have regretted bedding a human._   Though, he couldn’t forget Thranduil’s delighted awe when Bard had mentioned being untouched by another man.  The way his graceful fingers had traced what flesh he could reach.  He stood, shrugging to hide the shudder of remembered pleasure.

     “If he insists,” he responded, keeping his voice low. 

     The elf bowed again, sweeping an arm to his left.  “Please, I am Saelthal.  I ask that you follow me.  There is a bathing room for you to refresh yourself and as soon as you are comfortable, his Worship wishes an audience.”  He didn’t wait for Bard’s acknowledgement, turning instead with a sweep of soft green and heading toward the palace deep in Mirkwood.

     _Right.  Clean the filthy human._   He nodded though, part of him relieved.  He _felt_ filthy.  He had been running ragged the last week and a bath was sorely needed.  He grabbed his bag and hefted it, following his guide.

     The other elves gave him a cursory glance before turning back to their work, effectively erasing him from their minds.  Not exactly surprising but it never sat well with Bard.  He never understand the animosity of the Mirkwood elves.  They weren’t _openly_ hostile but they were rarely welcoming.  Given Mirkwood was his only elven exposure, he had to wonder if _all_ elves of Middle Earth were as cold.

     He kept his thoughts to himself Saelthal led them along the forest paths to Mirkwood proper.  Tired as he was, the trek to the depths of the forest wore away what little stamina he had remaining.  Now, more than ever, Thranduil’s insistence of a night’s rest was well accepted.

     As they crossed the main gateway, he stumbled, awed by the beauty of the secret kingdom.  The first time he had been here when he had brought the contract, he had not ventured far beyond the main gates.  The enormity of the hidden realm had eluded him then.  Not so now.  The elves’ love of their woodlands showed in the careful cultivation.  The living form of the city.  Unlike the majority of Lake-town, Bard felt safety radiating from the high-arching, limb-twisted walls.  Comfort he only experienced in his own rickety home.  Realizing Saelthal had kept moving, Bard shrugged his pack higher and picked up his pace.

     The elf led Bard down a sloping ramp and the heat in the air hinted at steaming water.  He could feel his muscles relax at the very thought of it.  _All right, as tokens go, this one isn’t so bad,_ he admitted, wryly amused at his own acceptance of the very odd situation.

     At the ornate doorway, Saelthal gestured as he pulled the door open.  “Please.  Refresh yourself.  There is a door opposite; from there it will lead directly to his Worship’s hall.”

     Bard turned to ask a question but the door had already been shut.  “Well.  That’s familiar.”  He snorted in tired amusement and faced the room again.  It wasn’t large but it was comfortable.  Though, he would wager the whole of his home would fit snugly within its confines.  A gilded screen stood in one corner and from its high edge, he could see the faint curl of steam in the air.  To his right sat an ornate chair and a dresser; the latter’s surface a deep, dark brown that gleamed under the flickering torches.

     Unused to such grandeur, Bard waited a few more minutes, expecting another elf to discover the mistake, before setting his bag down and stripping off his coat.  He hung the garment over the back of the chair and tugged at his tunic as he rounded the edge of the screen.  A large, well-filled copper tub waited.  Next to it stood a small crystal stand, its surface decorated with oils and soaps given the fragrance that wafted up.

     He smirked at that, picking up one container and then another.  Something Sigrid would likely enjoy.  He wondered how much a slight it would be to tuck one or two away in his pack for her.  Such amusement faded when he happened upon one that sparked a feverish memory.  The spicy scent of fresh loam and the softness of a quick rain.

     _Thranduil._

     He licked his lips, fingering the slim bottle.  Was this the very scent the elven king bathed in?  Or, had it merely been created to honor him?  The scent remained pleasant and light, not cloying like the expensive perfumes from the West.  Subtle and sweet.  Regardless, Bard’s aching back and legs decided his next action.  He stripped out of his familiar clothing, tossing them toward the dresser, and sank into the steaming waters, sighing at the sensation.  He soaked quietly, eyes shut, as the knots in his skin began to fade.  The water itself had been lightly scented, the perfume of fresh wildflowers drifting up alongside the gentle steam clouds.

     Realizing that he made Thranduil wait the longer he dawdled, Bard retrieved the bottle of soap he had found and made quick use of it, trying in vain not to remember when he first experienced it.  The hard fingers on his hips.  The scrape of bark under his own hands.  The foreign pain followed by such bliss.  An intimacy he had long missed and continually craved.

     Stars above, he almost wished Thranduil had never found him.  Had let him wander in circles until the forest had claimed him.  Instead, he had to _remember._   And crave and desire.  An elven king had taken him as a lover and Bard found himself unable to want anyone else.  It would have been easier on him had Thranduil let him rot within those woods.  Instead, he had fallen victim to the king’s temptation and wanted only to experience it again.

     To his annoyance, his prick _also_ remembered that day.  He glared at the offending appendage and firmly clamped down on his desire, eventually winning the battle of wills as it wilted back into the steamy water.  _Sport that while visiting the king; fine idea._   He shook his head, water droplets flying before he ducked into the water, rinsing the last of the soap from his skin and hair. 

     He came up, blinking water from his eyes, startled to find two thick towels on the stand now.  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.  Eerie elves and their eerie movements.  Like magic made whole.  He clambered from the tub, wrapping one towel about his waist and using the other to scrub at his hair.  As he came around the screen, he halted.

     _Dammit._   His clothing was gone.  The familiar jacket, his tunic, breeches, even his boots.  In their place was a neat pile of what he assumed to be nightclothes and a silken red and silver robe.  “Shit,” he muttered.  He crept up on the offering, wondering if Thranduil had been offended by the simple garments before he found a neatly written note beside them on the dressing table.

    _Master Bard.  King Thranduil has requested your garments be cleaned and mended before morning.  Please enjoy these gifts alongside his Worship’s hospitality._

     Gifts?  He fingered the fabric of the clothing, his eyes going wide.  The robe itself would have put food on the table for over a month.  He would be foolish to accept such a thing.  Likely, though, he would be _more_ foolish to refuse it.  Unsettled, he slipped the clothes on, surprised by how well they fit.  The tunic was of soft spun wool, dyed a deep, dark blue, the breeches a buttery leather tanned nearly black.  Beneath them he found a pair of soft slippers that he tucked his feet into before pulling the robe on.  It was thicker than it had seemed, warm and comforting.  The threaded silver glittering along the hem.

     No wonder elven craftsmanship was so well-regarded.  Beautiful as it all was, though, he would have to refuse it.  He could not return home with such extravagance and not be hounded for it or feel guilt when the children had yet another meal of salted fish.  Though, for a night, he could enjoy it, he supposed.

     He belted the robe and padded to the door that Saelthal had indicated, pushing it open.  It made no sound, whisper quiet as it revealed another sloping ramp, heading up this time.  Bard moved along it cautiously, wondering how in Middle Earth that the Mirkwood elves didn’t tumble from the precarious walkways.  He avoided looking along the edge, not wanting to find out through experience.

     Eventually, the ramp leveled and met up with a wider walkway, this one leading upward again.  This time to Thranduil’s throne.  He could see the elegant arching spines as he approached.  Six months ago, he had met the elven king at his kingdom’s entrance.  He had yet to see the wonders of the woodland realm itself.  Now, given the grandeur he approached, his mind worked feverishly, trying to discern _what_ Thranduil’s motivation had been.  The throne shone under the torchlights, ancient antler kept gleaming white. 

     _Bloody hell.  I’m starting the think I should have braved the storm,_ he thought, brow furrowing.  He barely knew how to address Thranduil properly.  He knew even _less_ of whatever protocol the elves required for their leader.  This was _not_ a place for a man such as Bard.  The worst he had to deal with revolved around guessing the Master’s odd requests.  Thranduil, for all their intimacy, was still very much foreign to him.

     Nerves swam in his stomach and he swallowed.

     As he neared, two guards snapped to attention, the precision of their movements startling him.  He blinked, his heart thudding at the surprise.  Neither looked at him, the spears in their hands delicately carved but deadly.  He hesitated, expecting some refusal or announcement but when they remained silent, he edged past them, holding his breath.  The moment he stood beyond them, they snapped their heels again, this time turning away, their confident steps retreating.

     Bard gave them a parting look before facing forward.  He could see why Thranduil’s throne had been placed on such a high dais.  It helped the king appear detached as ever.  Distant and beautiful.  He kept his gaze even with the elven king as he bowed, until his position forced him to look downward.  “Your Majesty.  You honor me with your gift and invitation.”  By now, the guards had vanished and he and the king were alone.  He could not yet decide if that was the better of the two options.

     Like soft music, that same chuckle.  The one that had lingered long since.  The melody of it shivered in his muscles and Bard unfolded slow, wary.

     Thranduil’s smile was not like before; no, this was _predatory._   Preening as he lounged stop his throne.  One leg, crossed over the other, kicked out slow and steady.  “Though accurate and pleasing to hear, it is unnecessary, Master Bard.  You owe me no deference.”

     Frowning, Bard nodded.  “Be that as it may, I don’t wish to seem ungrateful.”  He shifted where he stood, out of place amidst the delicate woodland finery.  He did not belong  _here._ He belonged in the chilly, dank confines of Lake-town.  With its weather-beaten homes and the permanent sheen of oily fish in the air.  The opulence around him left him reeling.  He stood before the beauty of Thranduil in borrowed finery.  The very definition of _fraud._   He might have taken more strength from his ragged skin coat and boots that had seen better days a century before.  He had to wonder what Thranduil’s subjects thought of such an audience.

     "My lord, I —"  

     Thranduil held up a hand, stalling him.  He stood, letting his cloak fall in a pool of brilliant red and gold atop his throne.  The high collar of his dress coat gleamed with glittering threads, the rings on his fingers, twinkling under the torches around then.  Thranduil’s boots made scarcely a whisper as he descended the winding stairs.  With each step, his crown sparked and shimmered as though alive.

     "Lord?"  Thranduil smiled, lips curled.  "I have seen the most intimate parts of you, Bowman.  I would not hear that word from you lips unless you were shed of clothes and on your knees before me."  The familiar gray eyes darkened to a wicked storm.  "I have lain awake nights, remembering your taste.  How you felt.  How you sounded."  Possession flared in the eerie gaze.  "Then, to see you at my gates.  To know the Valar returned you to me."

     For a moment, Bard couldn’t speak.  Thranduil’s words rang with such confidence.  His need a near palpable thing in that quiet throne room.  Looking away, Bard tried to gather his wits.  "I admit . . . I had thought you had forgotten."  He turned back to face the king as his long-buried lust and want surged, leaving his body flush with warmth.  To hear the elf echo his own desires stunned him.  He had believed – had _wanted_ to, for his own sanity – that Thranduil never thought of him.

     The dark brows lifted almost comically high.  ”Forgotten?  How could I forget the exquisite  _heat_ of your body?  As though the world created  _you_ solely for  _my_ pleasure.”  He  _stalked_ toward Bard, moving like a mountain cat toward cornered prey.  ”The perfect shape of your lips.  The way they shivered as I captured them.”  He shook his head, “Nay, Bowman.   _You_ I have remembered  _always._ ”

     Bard’s heart thundered and his breath quickened.  Thranduil’s words were precisely what he craved and dreaded.  He had been plagued for so long by the memory of their time together.  With desperate clarity, he could recall the way they moved.  The ecstasy that had wrecked him so completely.  His own driving need to  _search_ for his scout while thinking it lost crusade.  To think Thranduil had done the same stole all sense from him.

     Before him now, Thranduil reached out, stroking his jaw with the backs of his fingers.  ”You were a prize in those woods that day.  A gift I saw fit to experience.”  He leaned in, eyes hooded, lips teasingly close.  ”Would that I could worship you again.”  A mischievous dart of tongue.  ”I promised I would take my time with you, Bard,” he whispered, voice hot and sinful.  ”Do not keep me from my word.”

     Voice thick and sharp in his throat, Bard nodded and rasped, “ _Please,_ " as Thranduil’s mouth descended on his.  Sighing into the kiss, Bard’s hands clenched at empty air before he dared settle one around the elf king’s forearm.  The harsh brocade of his coat bit into Bard’s hands and he squeezed, as though the discomfort might wake him from the pleasurable nightmare.

     Thranduil pulled away, lips parted.  “Your scent is different here,” he murmured, almost sounding put out.  He made a show of sniffing Bard’s neck, the action leaving him shuddering.  “Not that beautiful dirt and sweat; simply my soaps.”  He chuckled.  “As though I have marked you already.”

     The comment confused him.  He had always assumed elves to be fussy and finicky.  A half-smile began to form.  “You don’t see humans as _filthy_ compared to elves?”  Humorous as the entire situation turned out to be, he became far too aware of his own appearance.  The robe he wore over his tunic and breeches was deceptively heavy and thick yet he felt naked in front of Thranduil.  The king wore elegant, sumptuous fabrics, and Bard stood before him in a bloody dressing gown.  He tried not to fidget but he shifted all the same.

     The elf king quirked an eyebrow.  “Filthy?  Hm.  Some, perhaps.”  He laid a hand along Bard’s throat, his fingers dipping into the hollow of skin as he dragged it down, parting the collar of his shirt.  “There are . . . essences I can experience without another knowing.  The core of one’s heart, as it were.”  He slipped his hand to the left, brushing over one clothed nipple and grinning when Bard hissed.  “There are some of your kind who dress in nothing but wealth and drip of jewels and perfumes and yet, to my eyes, they are the depths of sin and doom.”

     He stepped closer, sliding his hand along Bard’s hip under the robe and letting it settle at the swell of his arse, sighing.  “And then there are those like you.  You _shine._ ”  He nuzzled Bard’s ear, pressing as close as possible, the surprising heat of his cock like a brand through Bard’s suddenly thin clothes.  “You blaze like a thousand suns in my sight, a gleam of diamond among stone.” 

     He gripped Bard’s arse cheek and chuckled at sudden jump.  “How could I find such a treasure filthy?”  He lifted his right hand, turning Bard to face him.  The gray eyes burned nearly black.  Gaze lidded, he purred, “As I stated, you were made to be worshiped, Bard of Lake-town.”  His tongue darted out, sliding along Bard’s slack lips.  “I am but a humble supplicant.”

     Trembling, Bard couldn't help the laugh.  “Humble?”

     Thranduil sniffed, a sharp smile tugging at his lips.  “Careful.  I would almost think that a jest.”

     Though it pained him to do so, Bard took a step back, Thranduil’s fingers sliding from him as the distance increased.  He ignored the flash of confused hurt in the elf’s eyes as he shifted away.  More confident with air between them, he lifted his chin.  “Why?”

     The elf tilted his head again, eyes narrowed.  His crown shimmered at the movement, the twining tines deadly under the sudden shadow.  “Why?  I am afraid I do not know the source of the question.”

     Scowling a bit, Bard folded his arms.  “Nearly three years.  You and I . . .” he halted, blushing when Thranduil smirked.  A nervous cough and he found his words again.  “Three years ago.  You knew who I was when I brought the contract to you.”  _All this time.  You've let me yearn for you with nothing but a memory._

     To his surprise, Thranduil’s gaze softened, becoming nearly apologetic.  “Ah.”  He breathed in, turning and pacing slow and even, occasionally glancing toward Bard.  “I had hoped it a fascination on my part.  I do not . . .” he stopped, his back to Bard.  “Humans tend to be more carefree with their affections and their bodies.  Even many of my kin.  I, however, am less likely.”

     “Are you saying I corrupted you?”  How ridiculous.  Bard hadn't even known Thranduil had been near him.  The _elf_ had approached _him._  

     Thranduil turned around to face him, wry smile in place.  “In a sense,” he admitted.  He held up a hand, his rings glinting.  “I do not see it as _corruption,_ however.”  He approached Bard again; unlike before, his pace now hesitant.  “I mentioned how you shine, yes?”  When Bard nodded, he went on.  “I saw in you a . . . light I had not seen in ages.”  He lifted a hand, resting it against Bard’s cheek. 

     Shock filled Bard at the tremble in the elf’s fingers.  “Thranduil,” he started, halting when the elf’s brow furrowed.

     “At your core is an essence of such strength and purity.  A beauty to echo that of the Valar.  Perhaps I was greedy.  Or foolish.  I only knew I wanted to feel that, if only for a moment.”  He traced his fingers along Bard’s brow, dragging them down slow and gentle to the bridge of his nose.  His voice dropped to a cracking whisper.  “To have you receptive and eager frightened me.”  His gray eyes flicked to Bard’s as those same fingers touched his lips.  “You woke in me a need I had buried long ago.  A desire for another.” 

     Wary of distracting the elf, Bard asked carefully, “Then why now?  After all this time, why want me again?”

     Thranduil stilled and pulled his hand away, leaning back.  The pain the gray eyes shimmered bright and wild before vanishing behind a blank mask.  “Because I am not so foolish now.  To you, I was a thrill.  I know that.”  He turned from Bard, reaching up to remove the elaborate crown from his head.  He paced away, halting before a small stand at the foot of his throne.  Resting it carefully atop the intricate frame, he let his hands fall.  “Perhaps . . . I merely needed time to ready myself.”

     Confused, Bard squinted at him.  “Ready yourself?  Do all elves talk in circles or is this a trait of the elite, only?”  Only a heartbeat earlier, the elf king had all but declared devotion to Bard and now spoke to him as though enacting a trade deal.  _Bloody damn elves,_ he thought, annoyed.

     Thranduil eyed him.  “I am willing to accept that what comes tonight will be yet the same.  A lark for you.  However, if you will have me, I will make certain that at the very least, it will be a pleasurable memory for you.”  He held out his hands.  “I will ask nothing of you but this night, I swear it.”

     “Spirits take you,” he muttered.  Bard wanted to strike the arrogant, self-sacrificing elf.  Instead, he shut his eyes and shook his head, rubbing one hand along his face.  “You _horse’s arse_ ,” he growled.  He took some satisfaction from the shocked look on Thranduil’s face.  “I have likely rivaled my daughter’s silly little romance stories given how desperate I have been to remember _every detail_ of our short time together.”  He marched forward, the elf’s eyes widening.  “I _dreamt_ of you.  Ached for you.”  He snorted, a grim smile on his lips.  “For a time, I thought you a figment.  A fancy in my head created out of loneliness.  Until I saw you again.”

     He tried to stop but the words rushed along his tongue.  “It was a damn sight easier to take when I thought you some bold, nameless scout.  Out to gain his jollies with some fool of a hunter.”  His cheeks warmed and he snapped his hand across the air between them when Thranduil tried to speak.  “It ached less when I thought you a dream.  And then you stood there, in crown and trappings and spoke to me as though you hadn’t . . . I did not reach for you because you are _Thranduil_ , King of the Woodland Realm.”  He firmed his jaw.  “But you are a bastard, Thranduil, to claim I felt _nothing_ for you.”

     All the while, Thranduil remained still, his light eyes wide with surprise.  Bard glanced away and rubbed the back of his head, his damp hair tangling in his fingers.  Perhaps a bastard but it hadn’t diminished his want.  Probably never would.  Bard dropped his arms at his side, grunting in annoyance.  “But I am human, Thranduil.  I carry no title.  No wealth.”  Bard held out a hand.  “I am Bard.  Widower.  Barely your bargemaster.  My only treasure can be found in the faces of my children.  I am a shadow next to you.”

     Thranduil recovered some.  He shook his head wildly, pale hair dancing.  “Not a shadow.  Not to my eyes.” The plea in the elf’s voice startled Bard.  Did he remember Bard _that_ desperately?

     Voice dropping in pitch, he snapped, “Then do not claim that you are a lark to me; not when I have desired no one else since you touched me.”  To hear Thranduil speak of his own pain as though Bard had forgotten the elf entirely, carved at him.  How could he have?  Thranduil had been ecstasy made manifest.  He had touched Bard in ways that had left him dizzy, left his mark so deep that Bard had been forever changed.  He had considered others to bed but none had those shivering gray eyes.  The soft, white-blond hair.  None smelled like the earthen spice of the forest.  Nor tasted like new-fallen rain. 

     The elf king blinked twice before a relieved smile began to bloom.  “Then . . . I am not alone in this desire?”

     Bard almost laughed.  He snorted and slapped a hand to his face.  _I had to find comfort in a dramatic fool of an elf._ Amused, he lowered his hand and shook his head.  “No, you idiot; you are not.”

     As though a torch had been lit, Thranduil’s sultry confidence surged forward once more.  He smirked, reaching out and pulling Bard to him.  He nuzzled Bard’s ear and whispered, “’Idiot’ am I?”  He sighed, lifting a hand to wrap warm, firm fingers around Bard’s throat, thumb rubbing against the wild pulse.  “I will allow that . . . for now.”  He nipped Bard’s jaw before purring, “Will you have me?  Am I permitted my worship, Bard?  Let me savor you for the night until you leave me at the sun’s rise.”

     The wise thing would be to decline.  End this now before either of them became so entangled there would be no turning back.  But Bard could nearly taste that desire.  It bubbled in his veins, hot and sharp.  He could no more turn back now than he could cease breathing.  He grinned, turning his head to seize a kiss, startling the elf king. 

     “If you insist,” he murmured.

 

~~*~~

 

     Thranduil broke them apart, his pale face flush and eyes wild.  “You will be my doom, Bowman,” he growled.  He kissed Bard again, quick and desperate before drawing away a second time.  “Or, perhaps, I shall be yours.  I seem to recall a rather _desperate_ hunter who _begged_ for such.”  That devilish smirk returned.  “It did suit you, my dear Bowman.”

     Whatever upper hand Bard had earned was now gone.  He struggled to think of why that would be a problem.  Thranduil held him fast, nimble fingers touching and scraping every inch of exposed skin.  His prick now fully awakened, Bard chided, “You aren’t considering taking me here, are you?”  He glanced around the wide throne room, eyebrows raised.

     Thranduil scowled.  “You are mine to enjoy _alone,_ ” he stated, deep voice shivering with want.  He spun Bard around, pulling him to his chest, nuzzling still-damp hair as he sighed.  “I would want no other to experience what you have given me.” 

     Bard arched into the embrace, savoring the feel of Thranduil’s solid arms around his midsection.  “I would suggest,” he grunted, “someplace more private then.  _My Lord._ ”

     The elf king’s fingers dove in and tightened on Bard’s hair, drawing his head back sharply as he seized Bard’s mouth, far more possessive than before.  Bard moaned into the kiss, eyes falling shut as Thranduil’s tongue sought his.  This was _not_ like before.  Thranduil had been eager but still cautious those years ago.  Careful.  Here, however, Thranduil held onto Bard as though he were a prize sorely won.  A precious treasure worth secreting away.

     He grunted in surprise when Thranduil pulled away, lips bruised with color, eyes dilated and dark.  The elf king loosened his grip, though he kept one hand on Bard’s upper arm.  “My chambers.  This way,” he rasped, tugging gently. 

     Bard went along willingly, his head swimming with desire.  He wondered if it would be possible to collapse from want.  He certainly couldn’t keep his steps straight.  The walk to Thranduil’s room felt unnecessary and troublesome.  Though it had been said in jest, he half wanted the elf king to take him here.  He only wanted the elf to claim him again.  To make him scream the way he had in those woods.  He stumbled after Thranduil, blushing when the elf turned to offer up a preening smirk.

     “Prick,” Bard muttered.

     Thranduil’s eyebrow twitched before he commented, “Yes, you did seem to enjoy that portion of my anatomy _quite_ well.”  Smug again, he tilted his head as he pulled Bard closer.  “Have you missed it?”  He halted on the walkway, a short distance from yet another high-arching, delicate doorway.  “You claimed to have dreamt of me.  Have you remembered the way I took you?  That I was the first to claim you?”  He clutched the back of Bard’s neck, pulling him close for a bruising kiss.  He shifted again, hot mouth moving along Bard’s jaw.  “That no other man had taken you, that I had that honor . . . you became a wine I craved.”  He cradled Bard’s face in both hands, eyes fever bright.  “Let me take you again.  Let me watch you to completion.  Let me feel your seed on my hands.”

     “ _Stars above; yes!_ ” Bard gasped.  Thranduil was cruel to keep taunting him like this.  By now, he was painfully hard and he wanted only to shed his clothes to relieve his discomfort.  He fisted his hands in Thranduil’s coat and growled, “If you do not cease with this, however, I will finish without you, you blasted wood sprite!”

     Thranduil’s grin sharpened and he turned without a word, striding to the distant door.  Bard blinked at the quick move before scowling and stomping after him.  Clearly, now that Thranduil had what he wanted, he returned to his cherished arrogance.  Rather than be annoyed, unfortunately, Bard became only more aroused.  _Possibly not the best reaction,_ he mused.  As he hurried, he loosened his robe, fingers pulling at the strings of his tunic.

     “Careful,” Thranduil chided, his hand splayed along the intricate lines of the door.  “One might think you quite eager, Master Bowman.”  He shoved the door open, striding in with his head high.  “Very unsightly.”

     “Arse,” Bard huffed.  He had barely stepped through the doorway before the heavy wood slammed and he was shoved against its decorated surface, the elf’s mouth on his as though a man dying of thirst.  He gave up his fight then, groaning with pleasure, his fingers tangling in that half-remembered blond hair.

     He reacted little to the warm hands along his hips, the frantic tugging at the laces of his breeches.  He only kicked off his slippers and aided Thranduil’s haste, the soft leather soon in a dark pile at his feet.  Before he could remark, however, Thranduil was on his knees, his mouth on Bard.

     His head cracked against the door but he barely felt the pain, savoring instead the wet, warmth around his aching cock.  Breath shivering in his throat, he lowered a careful hand to Thranduil’s head, fingers biting into silken hair as he struggled not to thrust his hips.  He made the simple mistake of looking downward, nearly overcome by the sight of Thranduil’s lips stretched around his prick, the elf’s cheeks high with color as he moved.

     “ _Bloody hell,_ ” he gasped, shutting his eyes. 

     To his dismay and relief, Thranduil pulled off, breathing faster as he licked his lips.  “I did not get to explore you fully that day, Bard.  My mistake.”  He rose then, pulling at the clasps of his dress coat.  He removed the coat and shift beneath it quickly, baring his pale, hairless skin to Bard.  “Not one I intend to make twice,” he rasped.

     Bard reached out, laying a hand along the elf’s firm chest.  Thranduil was slender though muscled, the body without blemish or infirmity.  His own skin, rough from sun and work contrasted greatly with Thranduil’s pale, protected flesh.  He smiled bitterly as he watched his own fingers.  “You continued to lower yourself to my station; why?”

     Thranduil frowned, placing his own hand over Bard’s, crowding him against the door.  “I see no station when I look at you, Bowman.  I see fire and glory.  I see strength and life.”  He kissed Bard again, far gentler and sweeter than all the times before.  His fingers clenched on Bard’s as he pulled away, sighing.  “If you could see what I do when I gaze upon you, perhaps you would understand that it is _you_ who lowers yourself to me.”

     Stunned, Bard stared at the elf for a moment before snorting softly in amusement.  “I see that the randier you get, the more poetic you are.”  He shifted his hand, tangling it with Thranduil’s strong fingers.  “Bad trait to have, Thranduil.”

       “You are not as amusing as you would like to believe,” Thranduil retorted loftily.  He smiled warmly, though, as he stepped back, tugging Bard with him.  “I will forgive you for now, however.”  He dropped Bard’s hand and grabbed the edge of his tunic, snagging it up and off, baring Bard completely.  Thranduil’s pale eyes blazed feverishly as he raked his gaze along Bard’s nude form.  “To think, I denied myself this once,” he husked.  Startling Bard yet again, he pulled him into a savage kiss, turning them both and shoving Bard away in a flurry of movement.

     He yelped as he hit the bed, barely recovering before Thranduil crouched over him.  His long hair cascaded over them both, as he sealed his mouth over Bard’s again.  Undone, Bard spread his legs, letting the elf king fall against him, crying out into the embrace as silken fabrics brushed his throbbing prick.  He muttered a curse as he gripped Thranduil’s waist, wanting more of that teasing pressure.  His lover, however, had other ideas.

     Chuckling, Thranduil pushed up to his knees and pulled at the delicate fastenings of his trousers.  “Greedy as well.  Interesting.”  After a moment, however, he grumbled in elvish, his brow furrowed before barking out a sharp word.  He stood up in irritation, finally stripping the garments free.

      Bard snickered.  “A bit of trouble, Thranduil?”

     The elf glared at him.  “You are quite a bit mouthier than I remember,” he remarked.  He pulled off his rings, dropping them atop his piled clothing before returning to the bed.  Now fully nude, Thranduil had not lost an ounce of his arrogance or strength.  Strangely, it only increased in Bard’s eyes.  Thranduil had clearly not let his life as king lead him down a road of sloth as the Master had.  Slender as he was, his body glowed with health and muscle, made all the more intimidating by the lack of clothing.  His cock gleamed under the soft lights around them, pale as Thranduil, the head pink and wet. 

     “At the moment, I would much rather hear those sweet sounds from before, hm?”  He knelt on the edge of the bed and crawled closer until he hovered over Bard, his pale hair a curtain of soft light.  He leaned to the left, toward a small wooden stand and pulled at the carved drawer, taking out a crystal jar.  He set it on the bed next to them before returning his attention to Bard.

     Thranduil’s eyes glinted wickedly before he lowered his head, dragging wet warm lips along Bard’s naked chest.  “My taste of you had been so brief.  Not so now.”  He nipped a patch of skin over Bard’s ribs, lips curling at the squirm it earned.  “You are magnificent, Bowman,” he growled.  He spread a hand along the sparse hair of Bard’s chest, eyes nearly glowing with desire.  Thranduil scraped his nails along Bard’s chest, lips parting in awed delight. 

     Bard’s face flushed at the words.  “I am nothing more than a man,” he husked.   _A man who might very well be in love with a damn elf,_ he thought, wondering how in the heavens his life had come to this.  And knowing he never wanted it to end.

     Thranduil’s pale eyes flicked to his.  Again that warm, soft smile like before.  “Yes, a man.”  He leaned in, nudging Bard’s nose with his own.  “A man like no other.”  He shifted, leaning on one elbow, his body still half-draped across Bard’s.  “Are you unsettled by an elf wanting you in his bed?”

     His heart slowing, Bard shook his head.  “No.”  He snagged Thranduil’s hand, bringing it to his mouth.  Keeping his eyes even with the elf king, he nipped the delicate fingers, his body tightening at the flush that rose on Thranduil’s cheeks.  “Never.  I told you truly; I’ve wanted no other but you.”

     He grunted when Thranduil kissed him hard, pressing him into the bed.  With a flick of long hair, the elf shifted again, once more resuming his erotic path along Bard’s body.  The heat of his mouth seared Bard's skin, tasting every bared inch.  Bard’s fingers clenched on silken sheets, his heels digging into the plush bed as he struggled to keep his senses.  Thranduil’s tongue swept along his hip, daring and inquisitive, the pale hair a teasing brush against his prick as the elf moved.

     "To watch you this way," the king husked, "to know  _I_ have brought you to this, is a power all its own,” he rumbled.  He dragged teeth along Bard’s skin, lips curling at the hiss of surprise.  ”To know I have done this to you.  That I can bring you here.”  He moved, letting his lips come so close to his aching member yet not touch.  ”You, who moves with such surety.  It takes but a whisper of my touch to undo you.”

     Bard groaned, shaking under Thranduil’s fingers.  He wanted to deny it, to deflate the ridiculous ego of the elf but _stars above_ ; the bastard was right.  Bard could barely think with Thranduil’s touch and words burning through his skin and brain.  Perhaps it was a symptom of their forced celibacy but it mattered little.  Bard _needed_ Thranduil.  The exquisite torture little more than a whetting of the appetite.

     Thranduil’s fingers found his prick, massaging and tugging gently as he shifted, sliding along Bard’s body.  He growled as he kissed Bard, his fingers tightening in near pain on sensitive skin.  ”To break you thus,” he rasped, “I do believe I would rend the world for this chance.”

     "Thranduil," Bard managed, the name a shaky whisper.

     The elf king’s eyes turned dark and fierce.  ”There.  There we are.”  He leaned close, nipping Bard’s neck.  ”Break for me, Bowman.  Scream your pleasure until the heavens shake.”

     Bard wanted to shout at the elf.  Demand he cease this taunting but the ecstasy left him reeling.  He groaned again, squirming against the silken fabric.  _Blasted elf._ He bit his lip before begging, “ _Please!_ ” his voice strained and sharp. 

     “Beg me, Bard.  Plead for me.”  Thranduil’s voice trembled.  “A thousand stars would I sunder to watch you in my bed.  To taste you.  To _feel_ you.”  He fumbled to his side, fingers closing on the crystal jar he’d secured.  He flicked the slim lid off, dipping his fingers in, coming away wet and gleaming.  “A thousand stars would I destroy to keep you.”

     Letting his mouth rest softly against Bard’s cock, he reached beneath them, his fingers easily finding Bard’s arse.  Bard jerked at the cool wetness, arching his back as he swallowed hard.  The invasion burned like before but far more pleasantly.  Almost welcoming.  He tensed until Thranduil’s soft voice curled around him, the elvish he spoke a hum of sweetness.  By degrees, his muscles loosened and Bard moaned as Thranduil’s fingers slid deeper.

     “ _Estelio enni,_ ” Thranduil murmured, his lips brushing Bard’s sensitive skin.  He twitched his fingers, spearing Bard harder.  “ _Baneth lín síla celair_.” 

     The words held no meaning for Bard but the tone spoke of adoration and comfort.  His racing heart tempered and he bit his lip, focusing on the elf’s hands.  Bard shifted his legs wider, wondering if this was all some elaborate torture concocted by Thranduil.  If so, he would gladly tell the elf king all he wished if he would only continue touching him.  The thought faded as the elf king slid along Bard’s body again, lips finding Bard’s like an arrow to its target. 

     “Thranduil,” he groaned, cupping the elf’s face in his hands.  “Please,” he begged.  “I can’t . . . I _need_ you.”

     Thranduil shuddered, eyes shutting quickly.  “I would deny you nothing, my darling Bowman,” he rasped.  He opened his eyes then, the desire and affection dark and heady.  He pulled his hand away, slicking his cock with the rest of the salve, panting as he moved.  “I do not know that I would last much longer,” he admitted, grinning wryly.  “Ah, my sweet temptation; you defeat me yet again.”

     Like that day in the forest, Bard shivered at the feel of Thranduil’s cock pressing against his slicked entrance.  He swallowed and pulled Thranduil to him, kissing him hard as the elf moved, sliding slow and deep into Bard.

     Both groaned, pulling away with a whine of pleasure-pain.  He dropped his hands to Thranduil’s shoulders, his nails biting into pale flesh as he willed his body to relax.  “Oh, _stars,_ ” he breathed.  It ached and burned but the bliss followed close, surging in his veins.  He focused on that desperate desire, the ache fading quickly as Thranduil pushed deeper.  Finally,  _finally,_ he had what he had craved these three years.  And since that day in the woods, Bard felt peace return to him.   _Valar damn me for needing him,_ he thought, even as he pressed his mouth to Thranduil's damp forehead. _And damn the Valar for keeping him from me._ _  
_

     Thranduil grumbled wordlessly and fastened his mouth to Bard’s neck, sucking hard as he began to move.  He shifted back slow and easy before plunging in again, rocking the bed beneath them.  He hummed against Bard’s captured flesh, repeating the move at a faster, sharper pace.

     Clutching in desperation, Bard lifted his legs, eyes rolling at the pleasure that sparked at the shift of position.  Stars above, this would end him!  He clutched at Thranduil, the elf growling into his skin as his hands gripped Bard’s hips, his own snapping hard against Bard’s bared arse.  In reaction, Bard's voice cracked as he begged, drawing up his legs to wrap them about Thranduil’s waist. 

     Thranduil released his flesh and hissed in Bard’s ear, “Scream for me, my Bowman.”

     He wanted to swat the arrogant arse of an elf but Bard could only shout with pleasure as his body tightened and his blood sang.  His prick throbbed with each pounding thrust.  So unlike before.  Desperate want had driven them then.  Had left their lovemaking brief and rough.  This, however, spoke of desire deep and heady.  The ecstasy here, safe in Thranduil’s chambers, had reached heights he never thought possible.  Bard thought himself drunk with how little he could focus.  His senses were snared on the hot length that surged inside him and the tremor of desire that burned in his belly.

     “Th-thranduil,” he moaned.

     Without a word, Thranduil rocked into him harder and faster, grunting with each shift.  His trembling fingers circled Bard’s aching prick, pulling and stroking to near pain.  “Let go, my Bowman.”

     Bard did scream then, his body going rigid as he erupted over Thranduil’s fingers, near agony surging along his nerves.  Thranduil’s voice joined his as he slammed harder into Bard’s body, a familiar warmth spurting inside Bard as he did.

     Shaking and shivering, it took a moment for Bard to find his wits again.  He panted, gazing up at Thranduil to see the same hazy pleasure in the soft gray eyes.  Thranduil smiled and kissed him, gentle again.  He pulled free of Bard, shuddering as he did before he tugged Bard to his chest, curling against him like a contented cat.  He sighed into Bard’s hair, his arms tight and comforting.

    “Thranduil?”

      “Rest, my Bowman,” he drowsily slurred.  He nuzzled Bard and arched up, reaching over to pull the blankets around them.  “While I would enjoy taking you again, I do believe I need to rest first.”  Bard could nearly hear the smirk.  “Though, I’m pleased you want me that dearly.”

     Bard flushed.  “That wasn’t –“

     Another soft kiss to the shell of his ear.  “Sleep.  You are safe here, Bard.”

     He wanted to protest further but the heat of the elf and their rigorous lovemaking stole what consciousness he had left.  Bard yawned and let himself be drawn into Thranduil’s embrace, finding pleasant darkness quite quickly.

 

~~*~~

    

     When Bard woke, it took a moment or two for reality to return.  The arm around his middle reminded him quite clearly what he had done the night before.  As did the protest in his arse when he wriggled his legs.  The small water clock near the bed read close to dawn.  Perfect time for him to leave.  He lay still, though, afraid to disrupt the drowsy pleasure of it all.  Worried that it meant yet another end he didn’t wish to face.

     Against him, Thranduil shifted as he woke.  He drew closer, dropping a kiss to Bard’s chest.  “I know,” he murmured.  Hazy grey eyes met Bard’s and he moved again, leaning up to kiss him.  Resting against Bard, he pulled away, licking his lips.  “I expect, you will need to make _inquiries_ in the future as to the . . . integrity of your stock, yes?”

     Confused, Bard frowned.  “Eh?”

     Thranduil went on, ignoring the question.  “After all, I would hate to think you would ship a substandard product.  Perfectly reasonable that you would need to make monthly inspections of my cellars.”  He eyed Bard haughtily, though a touch of worry burned in the clear gray.

     Bard blinked and then chuckled.  “Cellars, eh?  Is that what I’m to call it?”

     “Cheek does not suit you, Bowman,” Thranduil scolded, though amusement tugged at his pale lips.  “I am only offering advice.”  He waved a hand lazily.  “An agreement among gentlemen, as it were.”

     “And does this _advice_ of yours come with a private room?” Bard asked, eyebrows lifted in mock innocence.

     Thranduil’s mouth met his, fingers scraping along Bard’s naked chest.  “My dear Bowman,” he purred, “it comes with one room, and one room only.”  Sighing against Bard’s lips, he husked, “Are these terms acceptable?”

      Bard rolled, pushing Thranduil into the bed, his arse pressing against Thranduil’s awakened prick.  “Aye.  More than acceptable,” he grinned.  Relief seeped into his weary muscles and his smile widened.  He had feared for all his speech the night before, that Thranduil would want nothing more of him.  Blessed stars, Bard was grateful to be wrong. 

     Thranduil smirked, the relief heady in his gaze.  He slid a palm along Bard’s chest, halting above his half-hard cock.  “Always a pleasure to do business with you, Bowman.”  His smirk sharpened, eyes glittering hot.  “Now, perhaps a parting gift, to remind you of your oath?”

      “ _Stars,_ yes,” Bard groaned, leaning in for another searing kiss as Thranduil’s fingers slid along the crease of his arse, already wet with salve.

 

~~*~~

 

* _Estelio enni_ – Trust in me

 _*Baneth lín síla celair_ – Your beauty shines brightly

 

**Author's Note:**

> Holy fucking shitnuts. @___@ This was the porn that would not end. Seriously. This fucker took forever. *dies* Anyway, I hope it was worth it. I struggled for some damn reason.
> 
> And for some weird-ass reason, I have Bard saying "stars" as a curse. Meh.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://dek-says-so.tumblr.com).


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